


The Lead in His Veins

by sammy_saves_the_dean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean's POV, M/M, Sam goes to Stanford, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:27:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2093994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammy_saves_the_dean/pseuds/sammy_saves_the_dean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam leaves for Stanford, and Dean is left to pick up his own broken pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lead in His Veins

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you like this, I wrote it sometime in the middle of the night to cope with random hormones and sadness.
> 
> If you squint really hard and tilt your head a little I guess you could see this as Wincest.

The weight crushing his chest  
The ache in the back of his throat  
The hollowness in his stomach  
The heat beneath his eyelids  
And the lead running through his veins. 

 

Dean was familiar with these. The side effects of sour guilt that quickly rose into rolling waves of depression, dragging him under, pulling him down. The depression never surfaced unless he felt truly, helplessly alone. The night Sammy left him for Stanford, the night spent in a motel room bathroom while his father drowned his anger and sorrow and self-hatred and despair in alcohol at some nameless bar. Standing limp in the shower as the water beat down on his back and the tears rolled down his cheeks, standing slumped before the mirror as the tears rolled down his cheeks, sliding defeated to the floor, as the tears dried on his face and he curled into a defenseless ball of emptiness. The great Dean Winchester had been conquered by a choice his little brother had made. His little brother had chosen normal, and Dean wanted it. He wanted what he could never possess. He never had a choice. He was raised as a killer, a hunter, a cold-blooded machine who... Who was now sitting on a dingy, dirty, God-forsaken bathroom floor in a motel room in nowhere. He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember what he was, where he was. He was completely and utterly alone, and there was no hope. The darkness swallowed him whole as he tried and failed to remember what normal might have once been to him and... he couldn't... remember...

 

And then he woke up numb to see the light filter into the room. No, numb wasn't the right word for what Dean felt. Numb meant the pain was still there, numb meant it would resurface. Dean was empty. Hollow. Devoid of anything but the hunt. 

 

Dean doesn't remember his father coming into the bathroom to ask if he's okay. He doesn't remember nodding once, sharply, because that's what he was supposed to say. Yes, I'm fine. Yes, let's keep hunting. Yes, yes to whatever his father asked of him because that's just what Dean always did. 

 

His sense of time slipped away and the only thing that was consistent for him was the hunting. Salt-and-burn, exorcism, silver blade, silver bullets, fire, flames, burning. The emptiness built within him as the days, months, years went by. And then, suddenly, Sam was there again. Just like that. And his emptiness was full even if Sam was a whiny little bitch on the road. His emptiness was full even if Dad was missing and possibly dead. His emptiness was full because he had his Sammy, and he knew then that this was normal. 

 

Sam was his normal, and there was nothing else he needed.


End file.
